


Tomorrow's Never There

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Series: Someone To Claim Us [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock goes in search of Greg, for reasons more surprising than either of them could have predicted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow's Never There

Squeezing his eyes shut, Greg rubbed them with a thumb and forefinger, trying to cajole them back into an alert state. It felt like he had been sat at his desk for hours; he didn’t dare look at his watch to confirm that that was more than likely the reality, too. When he grudgingly reopened his eyes it was to shoot a glare at the screen of his computer and the lines of type and figures silently, infuriatingly, awaiting his attention.

With a sigh, he returned to the reports, cursing procedure and deadlines and paperwork he just couldn’t delegate. Just as he, finally, seemed to be making some headway, he caught a dark blur of movement in the periphery of his vision: an unmistakable figure making a beeline for his office.

Groaning, Greg’s gaze flickered back to the screen. Maybe it was just his overworked brain conjuring up hallucinations, and if he ignored it, it would go away.

No such luck.

“Piss off, Sherlock,” he growled as the door opened and his ‘consulting detective’ entered the office. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock chose to pay no heed and flopped down into one of the chairs on the opposite side of Greg’s desk.

“I’m bored, Lestrade.”

“And what do you want me to do about that?”

Sherlock frowned at him. “Have you forgotten how our partnership works?”

“We don’t have a partnership, Sherlock. We have a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“From which I am not benefitting at the present moment in time.”

“Join the club.”

Greg made a point of pressing a few keys, giving his attention to the screen again. Sherlock, however, wasn’t to be deterred.

“You must have _something_ for me.”

“Nope.” Maybe, if he actually bothered to look, he could rustle up a cold case that might hold some interest for Sherlock, but he was lacking both the time and the inclination. Sherlock released a frustrated growl and let his head fall back dramatically.

“Isn’t there anyone else you can go and annoy?” Greg asked optimistically. 

Sherlock didn’t look up, didn’t even move a muscle. “John is busy doing something… _coupley_ with Mary, and no level of boredom could induce me to voluntarily visit Mycroft.”

“No clients?”

“Only old Mrs. Underwood and her missing Willie.”

That made Greg blink. “Sorry, what?”

“Her cat,” Sherlock explained in a bored tone that clearly implied such a fact should have been blindingly obvious.

“Of course.”

“He had absconded to a neighbour’s house because they had been leaving cat food out for the hedgehogs. Urgh.” The final word came out on an exasperated sigh; such a mystery was clearly beneath Sherlock’s phenomenal talents.

Greg picked up the newspaper he had earlier discarded on the corner of his desk, extracting it from beneath several sheets of a report that was probably important (but Greg had ceased to care), folded it open at the page he wanted, and tossed it at Sherlock. It struck him squarely on the chest and fell into his lap with a soft rustle of pages. Sherlock’s head now lifted in curious surprise.

“What’s this?”

“A Sudoku puzzle.”

Sherlock scowled with undisguised contempt. “Very amusing.”

“Look, I need to finish this. Can you just sit there quietly for ten minutes?”

The scowl turned murderous, but Sherlock mercifully remained silent. Greg tried to return to the budget figures that demanded his attention just as much as the man across from him, but the distraction hadn’t helped his concentration in the slightest.

Greg started when something dropped onto his keyboard and raised his gaze to find Sherlock standing in front of his desk with an impatient frown.

“Your ten minutes are up.”

Greg bared his teeth then looked down at the newspaper Sherlock had dumped unceremoniously in front of him. Both the ‘Teaser’ and ‘Toughie’ Sudoku grids had been completed, an accomplishment Sherlock seemed to derive no triumph from. Indisputable proof of his boredom.

“Okay. Fine,” Greg ground out and hit _Save_. He could finish this in the morning; he had to get Sherlock out of there or he was going to commit a murder right in the middle of the nick. He grabbed his coat and stalked out of his office, knowing Sherlock would follow.

* * * *

Greg didn’t know what to do with Sherlock once they had arrived at his flat, but Sherlock invited himself in and slumped on the sofa as if he owned the place. Greg flicked the television on and went into the kitchen to get himself a drink – a kind of ritual. A bachelor thing.

“Want anything?” he called through to the living room, and quickly added, “legal.”

There was no response. _Suit yourself_. He fished a beer from the fridge and went to join Sherlock on the sofa. The detective had removed his shoes and was sat sideways, using the arm of the sofa as a back rest, his knees drawn up to provide a prop for his chin.

“You really watch this rubbish?”

“Yes.” Honestly, Greg had no idea what it was that was currently playing on the telly, but it was the principal of the thing. Sherlock gave a derisive snort.

“I don’t know what you expect from me, Sherlock,” Greg ventured after a few minutes of silence. “I don’t have a cat to go missing.”

Sherlock gave a small shake of his head, as if he didn’t really need any such thing from Greg. But wasn’t that what all this was about? Greg squinted at Sherlock, trying to gauge the man’s mood, but he was as inscrutable as ever.

Suddenly, Sherlock lunged forward and snatched the beer bottle from his fingers, tipping it back and taking several long swallows. For a moment, Greg was transfixed by the smooth motion of that long throat as Sherlock drank, until he realized that half the contents of the bottle had disappeared.

“Christ…” He tugged the bottle away from Sherlock and was rewarded with an unhappy glower. Deciding not to waste his breath by venturing a comment about alcohol not being the answer, Greg picked up the remote and began flicking through the television channels instead, in search of something that might keep Sherlock occupied. Judging by the snippets he caught, however, such a miracle seemed unlikely so he settled on the football results.

He could feel Sherlock’s gaze on him, a tingling at the nape of his neck that was disconcerting but not uncomfortable; he had no idea what fascination he could possibly hold for the genius. Rather than try to unravel the inner workings of Sherlock’s mind, he drank the rest of the beer instead.

After fifteen minutes of peculiar silence, Sherlock suddenly shifted, rising from his seat and resettling himself on the floor in front of the sofa, beside Greg’s feet. The inspector watched, perplexed, then blinked in surprise as Sherlock leaned his head against his thigh.

“Sherlock? What’s all this?”

He didn’t think Sherlock was going to reply, and when the younger man did speak, it was in a soft voice. “You’re the only one who hasn’t left me.”

It struck Greg with a flash of understanding that Sherlock hadn’t come to Scotland Yard in search of a case, not exclusively. The unsociable borderline sociopath had been seeking company – he was lonely. But to lay the blame at the feet of others was unjustified.

“You left us too, don’t forget.”

“That was different. I had to do that to keep you all safe.”

That was a fair enough point, but Sherlock was missing an important detail. “It’s been two years. You can’t expect John not to have moved on in that time.”

Sherlock fell silent again, considering Greg’s logic. “I’m being selfish.”

Yes, he was, but it was human nature to look for interaction and comfort, perhaps even for Sherlock, who seemed so far removed from the ‘ordinary’ prerequisites of life. Greg didn’t attempt to put any of that into words; he was never very eloquent where speeches were concerned. Instead, he reached out a hand and gently pushed his fingers into Sherlock’s dark curls.

Sherlock accepted the touch, pressing a little more firmly into the contact. It hit Greg with the force of a thundering train just how empty life had been in Sherlock’s absence. He hadn’t given himself chance to think about just how deep a hole the man’s ‘death’ had left. Suddenly, the need to hold Sherlock, embrace the reality of his presence, was overwhelming – the same impulse that had made him throw his arms around the man when he had made his staggering reappearance. Sliding from his seat, Greg dropped to the floor beside Sherlock, and tugged him closer.

In his surprise, Sherlock resisted, but only for a moment. He sagged against Greg, burying his face in the older man’s neck. If Greg had still retained any ability to be shocked by Sherlock, he might have commented on this uncharacteristic behaviour, but he nothing else seemed important at that moment in time, nothing but the unexpected solace they each sought in the other.

* * * *

Eventually, they disentangled themselves and stirred from their spot on the floor. Sherlock huddled back into the corner of the sofa in a contemplative silence while Greg ordered takeaway that Greg ate and Sherlock picked at until he caught Greg frowning at him. The evening was oddly companionable in a way it shouldn’t have been, not if Greg stopped to consider this bizarre relationship. He decided he didn’t want to. Some things just… _were_.

When it grew late and Sherlock showed no signs of leaving, Greg offered him the use of his sofa for the night, which was duly accepted with a wordless nod. He fetched a blanket and a spare pair of pyjama trousers and an old t-shirt and deposited them beside the detective.

“You can’t sleep in those clothes,” Greg explained in response to Sherlock’s raised eyebrow and inclined his head to indicate the expensive-looking shirt and neatly creased trousers. He couldn’t determine whether Sherlock looked surprised or amused by his generosity, but he was too tired to begin puzzling out Sherlock any further. There had been enough revelations for one night.

Leaving Sherlock to his own devices – not usually a recommended course of action where Sherlock Holmes was concerned – Greg retired to his own bed.

There was a certain degree of exhaustion that only ever came about as a consequence of spending more than a few minutes in Sherlock’s company. Usually, it manifested as irritation or exasperation, but the unexpected emotional safari he had been on that evening had left Greg weary. While his mind showed no sign of letting go of its thoughts of the man in the living room, his body welcomed the calm waters of sleep.

Suspended in the hazy no-man's-land between awake and unconscious, Greg didn’t register the soft footfalls padding across the room until the mattress dipped beside him. Opening his eyes, he met Sherlock’s gaze in the dusky light and Sherlock froze, suddenly unsure of himself.

“Is this okay?”

Unable to look away from the open, almost vulnerable expression in those wide blue eyes, Greg was nodding assent before his brain had the chance to consider the reasons behind – and implications of – the request; he would have said yes whatever answers he came up with, irrespective of how wise his choice might be.

Relief was what Greg thought he saw flicker behind Sherlock’s eyes at his acceptance in the brief moment before the detective climbed beneath the duvet and lay down beside him, his shoulder just barely touching Greg’s. It had been…a while since Greg had shared his bed with somebody; that it was Sherlock with him now was unprecedented, but somehow welcome.

After a few minutes had quietly ticked by, Greg dared to slip an arm behind Sherlock’s shoulders, gently urging him closer. A second of hesitation, then Sherlock rolled onto his side and settled his head on Greg’s shoulder. It was more physical contact than Greg had ever seen the man display before, and it felt good to be able to provide the reassurance Sherlock needed and feel the solid confirmation of his presence, the heat of his very much alive body.

He hadn’t even realised he had _needed_ it.

Greg waited in the dark until he felt the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest regulate into the even rhythm of sleep before he followed him into the peaceful slumber they had both been seeking.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what happened here. It just kept getting fluffier and fluffier! Now I feel the need to balance it out with some smut.
> 
> (The title is taken from David Bowie's '1984')


End file.
